


One More Day

by JawnWatsoff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JawnWatsoff/pseuds/JawnWatsoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been struggling since Sherlock's suicide. He has a child to rear up, a flat to maintain, bills to pay, and on top of that he has to make everyone think that he's okay. </p>
<p>Soon enough, teachers at school begin to notice that Hamish looks a little under cared for. Child services start poking around, pushing John closer to the edge of where he's going to fall off. But what happens when suddenly things around the house start getting cleaned mysteriously, the cupboards begin to stock up themselves. At first John suspects Mrs. Hudson, but is that the case?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One.

“Hamish” John said with a heavy sigh, looking down at his son. “Please. Not today”

He grabbed at Hamish’s small socked foot, trying to wedge the shoe on, but in return received a sharp kick in the chest. He had been fighting with his son for the past hour, just trying to get him dressed for school. He had chased him around the flat trying to get his uniform on, and was currently sat on the sitting room floor; he had Hamish half pinned under him, trying to get him all set to leave. It was Hamish’s first day of school, and John didn't realize how hard this was going to be without Sherlock.

“Knock Knock” a soft voice sounded from the doorway. Hamish’s legs stilled, and John glanced up to see Mrs. Hudson. She was a welcome sight for sure. 

“Hang on” He mumbled, shoving the shoe on Hamish’s foot and tightening the lace. He let go of him and gave his leg a little pat. “All done, go on. Get your bag” He stood up and winced as pain shot through his leg. 

“Are you all ready for your first day of school?” Mrs. Hudson asked the small boy. John felt the question was aimed at him as well, but he let Hamish answer for himself.

“I’m already smarter than them all, so it’s going to be boring” He said with an air of attitude that made John’s heart ache. 

Even though Hamish wasn't of his and Sherlock’s DNA, the boy had picked up so many aspects of their personalities that you could swear he was their own born child. He had the attitude that Sherlock always had; the arrogance and the knowledge that he was far more superior than anyone else. It pained John a lot to hear it, to witness first hand their boy growing into something his other father wouldn't get to witness. 

“Thanks again, Mrs. Hudson” He said, dragging his gaze away from the head of curls bounding around the room. Another thing that was oddly similar to Sherlock and himself. The blonde curls; as if the gods blessed them with a son that was part of them both. 

“Oh it’s no problem really, John. I just hope the surgery doesn't have you worked too hard today. You’re wearing yourself out” She smiled softly at him. He had to be at the office in less than 30 minutes, meaning he couldn't take Hamish to school himself. He had tried to get the morning off, but it just wasn't possible. Not with all the bills that had to be paid. 

“Give dad a hug” He said as Hamish was hauling on his coat. The boy dashed over and wrapped his arms around John’s hips. He was getting taller, another frightening aspect, meaning he was growing up faster than John wished. 

“Bye dad.” He whispered, smiling brightly. 

He saw the two off, standing in the door way and watching them get in the cab. He stood there until the car was around the corner and out of sight. He let his shoulders slump forward and the dusting of a smile that he managed to hold all morning fall from his lips. The hard part was over for now, keeping Hamish and Mrs. Hudson convinced that he was okay.

 

***************

_John was sat on the couch, his feet tucked into his side. The telly was on, and Sherlock was curled on the floor so that John was able to run his fingers through the curls atop his head. They had been together for some time now, and they were discussing some serious things that they wanted to add into their lives; rings on their fingers, perhaps a small being running around their flat. John had little hope though, because Sherlock wasn't going to give up his cases._

_“Let’s adopt” The deep baritone rumbled from beneath him. John thought he was joking until the tall man stood up and dragged John to his feet along with him._

_“ You've got to be kidding” He said with a small laugh, letting Sherlock draw him in close to his chest. The past few months Sherlock had been more than affectionate, and John wasn't going to complain. It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock was dancing with him, swaying along the carpeted floor._

_“Why? I think it’s perfectly logical. And I know you want to” Sherlock rested his hand against John’s lower back, holding him in place._

_“You would have to give up experimenting in the house. And that means no body parts. Especially no body parts” He said with a faint smile. Sherlock chuckled and the sound caused his chest to vibrate against John’s cheek._

_“I’m well aware of that, John” He replied, spinning John in a small circle. “This is why I’ll have the flat cleared out for Friday.”_

_“What?” He said in disbelief. “Friday?”_

_“Yes, there’s a representative from the adoption agency coming in to assess the living situations and conducting an interview with us. I may have used Mycroft’s aide to get us ahead on the wait list”_

_“Bloody hell” John said, staring up at Sherlock, a mix of excitement and uncertainty written over his face. “You’re serious about this?”_

_“Yes, I’m serious” He smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against John’s cheekbone._

*********

John trudged his way up to the sitting room again, letting his body fall onto the sofa with a quiet thud. It had been six months since Sherlock had killed himself. Six months since the entire rooftop scene with Jim Moriarty. John sneered at the name, digging fingernails into the fabric of the sofa. 

He remembers so fondly the day they brought Hamish home. He was only months old, his mother having died during childbirth, his father nowhere to be found. They had changed Sherlock’s old room into a nursery for him, and over the years it had been turned into a room for Hamish’s small experiments that Sherlock had gotten him into. John always scolded when he found bugs, reptiles, and other small creatures tucked away in the room; but Sherlock had always insisted he let the boy experiment.

He got that from Sherlock. The need to know everything, but what he got from John was his compassion and his heart. None of these animals were ever harmed in any way. Hamish had stated on numerous occasions that he didn't want to see them hurt. Sherlock made sure John knew that Hamish was getting things from John too, always pointing out that fact.

John hadn't realized that he was crying until a heavy drop fell on the back of his hand, and he looked around the room with a start. Lately he had been drifting off into fits of a daze, losing track of time. The clock read 7:40 and he groaned audibly, dragging himself to his feet and wiping the tears from his cheek roughly with the back of his hand. He had to be at the office in twenty minutes. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, preparing mentally for the day that awaited him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a time jump, for those who get a little confused.

“Dad” Hamish said from his seat on the floor. The boy had one of his school projects spread out in front of him, colouring different parts of a map for his geographical studies. John started from his nap, raising his head to acknowledge his son through heavy lids. John had just pulled a double shift at the surgery and he had arrived at the flat just to sprawl out on the sofa and doze off. 

“What, Hamish?” He said with a voice thick with sleep. He wanted to head off to bed right away, but he knew he needed to spend time with his son too. 

“I’m hungry” He stated simply. John knew that Hamish could cook for himself, so for a moment he was confused. 

“Hungry, Hal? Get up and make something” It sounded too straight forward and even a little rude. He cleared his throat and pulled himself into a sitting position. “I mean is there anything there that you want me to make?”

“There’s nothing” Hamish said, not looking up from his work. He and his father had that in common, nothing pulling them from their work, even the simple task of making themselves food.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s something” He responded, pulling his mouth into a small smile. 

“There isn't.” He dropped his crayon and stood up, moving so that he was standing eye level with John. “I know I’m small, but I can still see the top shelves of the cabinets. You were supposed to go to the shop today”

With the way Hamish spoke, John was convinced that he was older than six years old. He regarded his son with a look of bemusement, but his heart ached every single time he looked at him. 

Everyone kept telling him it would get easier, that the pain would dull, but it didn't. It just got easier to hide, and that was unhealthy, even he knew that. 

He stood up, pushing himself by his knees. He felt his body strain, and he wanted to laugh at how fast his age was catching up on his body. “Well let’s see what we can cook up for you, kid” He placed a hand on Hamish’s back, between his shoulder blades to push him gently towards the kitchen. They hadn't moved out of 221b, but since the accident, the kitchen had transformed into something fit to eat in. John didn't want to leave; he wanted to hold onto some sort of connection to Sherlock.

Once in the kitchen, John picked Hamish up, setting him on the kitchen counter. He ruffled his hair slightly and was met with a small grunt of complaint. He moved towards the cupboards and opened them, searching for something that could be considered edible. Hamish was right, there was nothing; except for some parsley, and a half rotten jar of Jam. His smile fell slightly, he _had_ meant to go to the grocer today. 

He cast his gaze down to the counter, trying to gather himself quickly before addressing Hamish. A bright yellow envelop caught his attention, tucked slightly under Hamish’s school bag, which he always tossed on the counter after he came home from school. “What’s this?” He asked, pulling it out. It was addressed to Mr. Holmes-Watson, even though he and Sherlock had never married or joined their names in common law. 

“My principal gave it to me. It’s for you. I wasn't to open it without you.” He said the letter obviously of no interest to him. He was kicking the counter with his heels, looking at John with a impatient look. “Can I go to Mrs. Hudson’s? She told me I could if it was okay with you. She’s cooking chips!” He said with the gusto of a six year old boy.

John’s mind was elsewhere, he had never received a letter about Hamish, and he was slightly worried about what was in it. Could Hamish have been getting into trouble? Correcting teachers? Getting into spats with other students? He nodded at his request, guilt washing over him for having no food.

“Go on, I’ll go to the grocer while you’re down there. I’ll come get you when I get back” He mumbled, and helped him down off the counter top. He took off in almost full sprint, his long legs looking like a blur to his own old eyes. John looked back down to the letter, moving so that he was sat in one of the stools. He opened it and unfolded the paper carefully, his eyes scanning the words with the speed of someone who spent six years reading medical text books.

_Mr. Holmes-Watson,  
We are very pleased to have Hamish as a student here at our school, and we are all very certain that he will go far. But it has come to our notice and concern that Hamish has been without lunches for several days, and sometimes he comes in wearing the same outfit the same amount of days. We are aware of his home situation, and the loss of one of his fathers. We hope that this is not going to continue, because as a principal that cares dearly for her students, I would not want one of them being neglected. I am sorry for your loss, and I am aware that the loss of a spouse can take a hard toll on one’s life. Below is a number for a family counsellor that can aid you and Hamish. I regret to say, if above mentioned behavior resumes, we will be forced to contact family services to conduct an inspection-_

He stopped reading, his heart pounding savagely against his chest. This was not a letter of concern, this was a threat. His eyes blurred for a moment, and anger surged through him. He wanted to throw something, hit someone, or just go to the pub like he used to when he was angry. 

The word “neglect” bounced around in his head, making him see red. Who were they to assume that about him and his son; And to mention Sherlock in this, to assume that John couldn't handle taking care of his own child. He stood up and crumpled the letter up in his hands, the number along with it. 

The past few days had been harder on him, he had worked two days of double shifts, and then he had Mycroft breathing down his neck for a full day. Sherlock’s brother still dragged him out to places, always trying to give him money. It annoyed John to no end, having people think that he was incapable of fending for himself.

He scribbled out a note in case Mrs. Hudson decided to bring Hamish up, saying that he was gone to the shops, and he took off out the door without even putting on a coat. 

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

He realized in retrospect that going out with no coat on was a horrible idea. He was currently sitting on a park bench, grocery bags surrounding his feet. It was horribly cold out, and he wanted to just go home and sleep for a long time. But he couldn't, he had to do laundry, and make something for Hamish’s lunch tomorrow. His body gave a shudder, half from the cold, and half from the anxiety consuming him from the letter he had received earlier. It didn't help that he had to be at the surgery for 5:00 am. 

He heaved a heavy sigh and made his way back to the flat, arriving just moments before Hamish and Mrs. Hudson pushed their way through her flat door. 

“Hey guys” He said, happy to see that Hamish was smiling. He owed Mrs. Hudson so much for keeping hold on the house while he was having a hard time.

“Hello dear, Hamish was just telling me about his school talent show coming up, I’ll be buying a ticket” Mrs. Hudson smiled, giving Hamish a small pat on the back, sending him over towards John. 

“Thanks Mrs. Hudson!” Hamish said in a rushed voice, not making eye contact with John. “Come on dad, bed time!” He darted up the stairs into the flat before John could question anything. He had never heard anything about a talent show. 

“John, get some sleep. You need it.” Mrs. Hudson said, before disappearing behind her door. John was extremely confused, as he trekked back up the stairs, eyes searching for his son.

“Hamish?” He called, setting the bags on the table. He would get to putting them away in a moment. Hamish popped his head out of the bathroom door, smiling with his toothbrush in his mouth. “What’s this about a talent show?” 

Hamish’s cheeks filled in with red, and he ducked back into the bathroom. John walked towards him, regarding the fact that he was in clean pyjamas. Hamish rinsed his mouth and turned towards him. “I’m playing the violin. My music teacher taught me how to play, and I didn't want you to come, because you get sad when I play it” He mumbled, staring down at his socked feet. 

For the millionth time this week, John was flooded with guilt. “Hamish, I don’t get sad. And I want to see you play, just like your dad, right?” He forced a smile and crouched down to be at eye level with the boy.

“Just like dad” He agreed, and John could tell that Hamish was proud to hear that. John stood again, picking him up and carrying him to the bedroom. 

Upon arrival, John set Hamish lightly onto the bed, and pulled the covers up over him. “Sleep” He mumbled, pressing a kiss to his small forehead. He left the room, making sure the beaker shaped night light was on. "I love you, Hamish."

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

John put away the food he had bought made Hamish a sandwich for the following day, and retreated to his own room, ready to sleep for as long as he could. Before he could get the light on, he stubbed his toe on something hard. Cursing under his breath, he flicked on the light and looked down to see a basket of clean laundry, all folded placed by the desk. He mentally scratched his head, confused. 

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, you do too much” He mumbled, smiling slightly. The only person who could have done this, was his landlady. He smiled again, making a mental note to buy her something nice as a gift soon, as he settled off into a fit of dream filled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little insecure about this chapter, it just wasn't coming to me. I had to force it out. 
> 
> But on the plus side, I'll probably have a short Sherlock POV chapter up tomorrow!
> 
> (ps, follow me on tumblr http://www.three-patch-pr0blem.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short and badly written. I just feel like this isn't getting anywhere. I don't know if it's going to have much of a plot. I have an idea, but I don't know if it's been done before.   
> Leave a comment and let me know where I could bring this? Ta.
> 
> Ps: Bonus points if you catch the Star Wars reference.

Sherlock had been away for so long, that he was beginning to forget the feel of being in 221b. He was losing the sense of home, the sense of being somewhere in complete comfort. It was like a slap in the face when he stepped foot in there that evening, knowing no one was home. 

As he climbed the stairs towards the flat, Mrs. Hudson had stuck her head out the door and gave him a silent nod, her eyes sad. He could hear Hamish in there, laughing at a program on the telly. That filled his heart with an inexplicable ache that one could only describe as longing. He longed to turn around that second and walk back to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, scoop Hamish up, hug him without letting go for a very long time. Then they would find John, and they could be a happy family again, as dysfunctional as they were. 

Much to his dismay, he could not. There were still several very important parts of James Moriarty’s web that needed to be dismantled before he could go home. He knew that going home now would only put John and his son in danger. Especially since he had found about Sebastian Moran, who had become a very important threat to Sherlock and his family right after Jim had killed himself. 

The flat looked different, and Sherlock mentally noted that it wasn't clean. It wasn't in a state of mess that it had been before they had gotten Hamish; there wasn’t chemicals mixed around the kitchen, empty beakers lying around, and his own microscope plugged in and running on the table. No, it was unkempt. There were some dishes that were left in the sitting room, Hamish’s sneakers tossed carelessly across the floor. Sherlock wondered what happened to John’s insistence on needing the house to be in tip top shape to have a child running about.

Sherlock walked towards the sofa, sitting down heavily and staring at the floor for a few moments. His entire body ached; he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in almost a month. He had spent the month in Canada, working his way through a case involving a rather large underground drug train. He had spent every night in the basement of someone he had helped out a few years back. 

His vision trailed up towards the end of the sofa, where a sweater had been balled up as a makeshift sweater. It was a beige cable knit sweater, and Sherlock’s mind instantly identified it as John’s. He reached out for it with nimble hands, snatching the fabric and bringing it close to his own face. He couldn’t help but let his eyes fall closed as the scent of John filled his nose. The scent was so strong it stung, but it was his eyes that began to burn as opposed to his nostrils. It smelled like John, _his_ John. It smelled faintly like sandalwood body wash, tea, and antiseptic; and it was painful.

Sherlock let the jumper drop to the floor as if it had hurt him, and hauled himself up into a standing position. He ran a hand across his cheek and was surprised to see that it was wet. He had been crying, and his own body didn't even alert him to the fact. A surge of anger shocked his body into attention; he stood straighter and kept his eyes forward. He came here to get something, and that was it. 

He strode towards the kitchen, his eyes raking the state of it. There were dirty dishes piled up in the sink, no paper napkins around, and a carton of juice left out to sit. He rolled his eyes and placed the cap back on the bottle in one flick of the wrist. He turned his attention towards the cupboards, hoping some things were as he left them. Instead his attention was brought to a yellow envelop on the floor, the contents of it crumpled up next to it. It looked like someone had tried to toss it in the bin, and hadn’t bothered picking it up when they missed it. 

He stooped to pick it up, and smoothed the creases out with his fingers. His eyes scanned the words expertly, and his brow furrowed as he did. This worried him, the state of the flat should have told him right away. John wasn't doing well, and that made Sherlock angry. 

For a moment, all Sherlock could do was stand there and breathe with an irritated aura. Of course John was letting this get to him, it was so _human_ of him. Didn’t he realize that Hamish was more important than all of this? That by letting Hamish’s quality of living slip, he was failing them as a family? He stalked over to the fridge, pulling it open and surveying the insides. There was nothing in it, save for a carton of milk that had gone bad, and the juice that was left on the counter top. Sherlock frowned again, making deductions in his head.

He swiveled around, knowing that he shouldn't stay long, but another slip of paper caught his eye. 

**Mrs. Hudson,  
Gone to the grocer to pick up a few things for Hal. Be back shortly. Thanks for looking after him!**

A smile ghosted over his lips, so John wasn't doing too terrible. But maybe, just maybe, there was something Sherlock could do to help. The letter from the school mentioned Hamish’s clothes. So off Sherlock went, checking all the rooms for dirty laundry, things that looked or smelled fowl, and began the domestic task of washing clothes.

As the washer ran its cycle, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at himself. He had been spending the past six months solving cases, and now he was back on Baker Street doing the most domestic thing he’s done in years. This was always John’s job, doing the wash. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would handle it, but it was always John. John was the heart in their relationship, the soul, the person that remembered the small things.

John was the one who made sure Sherlock didn't accidentally die during experiments, who made sure he ate, and slept. He smiled fondly at a memory that crossed his mind as the washer beat out a steady sloshing sound behind him.

_“John, I have two more theories to work through, then I can consider the case finished, and I will sleep.” Sherlock sighed irritably. He was where he spent most of his time during those days; stretched out on the sofa, in nothing but his pyjamas and a dressing gown. He was working on a case regarding theoretical physics, and someone who claimed that they kept losing time when they went through their day._

_“Sherlock, its three o’clock in the morning, and you haven’t slept in almost 48 hours. I’m a doctor, and I say you sleep now” John’s voice was filled with authority, and Sherlock couldn't help but lift his gaze from the wall to his partners face._

_“Were you asleep, John?” Sherlock asked, taking in John’s appearance. He was wearing boxer shorts, and a baggy red rugby t-shirt that was at least two sizes too big on him. Sherlock smirked, and hauled himself into a sitting position._

_“No” He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Sherlock the way he so often did._

_“Then why are you lecturing me on lack of sleep?” He held out a hand, offering it to John. John stared at it for a moment before stretching out his own and entwining it with Sherlock’s._

_“I got lonely.” He shrugged, moving to sit in the space Sherlock had freed up. “It’s cold, and I was lonely”._

_“Ah” Sherlock said, knowing full well why John wanted him in bed tonight. It was the first snow of the year, and the window in his room wasn't quite working. There always was a chill, and it was a perfect excuse for John to coax Sherlock into bed. “Lay down”_

_“Bed” He replied stubbornly. Sherlock just put an insisting hand on his shoulder, pushing him into a lying position so that his feet rested on the arm rest, and his head rest in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock used this as an opportunity to run his fingers through the sandy hair that rested atop John’s head._

_“I love you, Sherlock” John mumbled, and Sherlock could sense the sleep approaching him at a rapid rate._

_“I know” He said, a smirk across his face._

They had fallen asleep like that, Sherlock sitting up, his fingers in John’s hair. And John had managed to bury his face into Sherlock’s stomach, his hand clamped tightly to Sherlock’s free one. Sherlock’s body ached with need of affection at that point, the washer buzzed behind him, signaling the cycle was done.

The rest of the hour, Sherlock dried and folded every article of clothing. He climbed the staircase to John’s room, their old room, and set the basket by the door. He didn't stay in John’s room too long, he couldn't. Emotion was something new to Sherlock, something that came with John, and Sherlock didn't know if he could handle it. 

As he was leaving, he stood in the entry way to the sitting room, staring again. He thought for a moment, and then darted towards the jumper he had discarded on the floor a little while ago. He balled it up and shoved it under his own coat. His mind wanted to ignore it, but Sherlock knew that he would sleep a little easier tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my tumblr! (jawnwatsoff.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is an idea I've been toying with for a little while. Maybe expect updates once a week?


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